Ghost
by karottensuppe
Summary: Post Reichenbach - John is in a bad shape, he is angry and disappointed and he misses Sherlock like hell. Just when it couldn't get worse there are strange things happening inside 221b. Little notes appear all over the flat, the sound of violins at night... Is he going crazy? Is is the ghost of Sherlock? Or is there a chance that his best friend is still alive?
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This would never have been possible if in weren't for _**stayalittlewhile**_! She helped me with spelling and grammar, had some really amazing ideas and she is also my motivation to write and for once finish a story!

Reviews are always welcome! :)

Have fun!

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_**Chapter 1**_

**Personal diary of John H. Watson**

**Entry 1: **

_There's no milk._

John looked at the page in front of him. He still had no idea what he was doing. His therapist had told him to make a diary about everything he wanted to tell Sherlock. All the little things that popped up in his head during the day were supposed to be written down. She said it would help him feel less overwhelmed with the memories of his best friend that keep flashing before his eyes constantly – like earlier.

Ever since the incident John felt like he was walking around with a hole in his chest. It feels like the hole gets bigger and bigger with every minute. To join the hole, the tremor in his hand was also back. John had opened the fridge and saw that there wasn't any milk left. The absence of milk was enough to trigger a memory. In a second, his breathing increased and his heart started to race. He remembered how Sherlock never bothered to do the shopping and how he used to get mad at him. If Sherlock were here right now he wouldn't get mad he told himself. John felt the hole in his chest again and had to sit down in his chair. John stared at the chair on the opposite of him – Sherlock's seat – while he waited for the attack to pass. He never sits down in Sherlock's seat. It just feels too wrong.

When he failed to get his feeling under control, even after what seems an eternity, he got up and reached into the drawer of his desk. John grabs the first empty book he finds in there and opens it at a random page. Maybe his therapist was right, he always felt overwhelmed by moments like this. After all, it couldn't hurt, could it?

Having written these three words, John feels silly. He is writing to Sherlock. He tries to picture what someone would think about him when they could see this moment. He is a grown man, a war veteran who is writing to someone that no longer exists. To him it feels like he is writing to an imaginary friend – pathetic. He crosses the words out again.

_There's no milk._

John hates to feel weak. He was a soldier once and soldiers aren't weak, they can't be or they would be dead. John had lost friends before, that's what you sign up for when you join the army. Eventually someone close to you will get hurt and doesn't make it. Never before though had it hurt so much; rendered him useless; made him _weak. _If anything, those deaths made him stronger. They gave him a reason to fight. This time, even the smallest reminder of the deceased friend turns him into a complete mess. It could be anything like an item of clothing he would find somewhere in the flat, someone he would hear talking on the streets in what resembles the soft, deep voice of Sherlock, or, like this time, an empty carton of milk in the fridge. The reaction was always the same; rapid breathing, a racing heat, tears in his eyes and a flashback in his head.

The flashbacks made his life difficult, but nothing compared to his nightmares. During the flashbacks he mostly relived happy moments with Sherlock, the dreams however always brought him back to _that_ day. Sometime the dream would just be a memory of what happened and other days John found himself in the weirdest scenarios that always lead up to the same end. Another thing that was consistent was the part, were John tried to run and save Sherlock. He never was successful though, not even in his dreams could he stop his friend from jumping. There were nights when he woke up several times screaming and nights where he barely slept at all.  
After that one time where John hadn't slept for three days his therapist prescribed him sleeping pills but he never actually took them. The pills were still where he had put them in the first place, on his bedside table. He denied that he had troubles and didn't want any more help – from anyone.  
Mrs Hudson had often tried to help him. She brought him dinner and wouldn't leave until he actually ate it. Sometimes she came to the flat at night to check on him and convince him to go to bed early. She always failed of course, but she still came back every so often to try again. On occasion, the two of them had long, good talks. In those moments, she felt like the old John is back. Most of the time however, Mrs Hudson felt like she was talking to the wall. The few time John replied, the answers were barely a whole sentence long. John often only nodded or grunted in response. They never talked about Sherlock, though. Whenever Mrs Hudson had tried to bring it up, John suddenly turned white as a ghost and his breathing got heavy. He also always left the room immediately. After a while Mrs stopped trying to talk about Sherlock.  
It was hard on her too, losing Sherlock, but she tried to keep it together – mostly for John. She wanted to be strong for him. She never let him catch her shed a tear but on the inside she was devastated.

Sherlock had not looked down at her for being just an old woman. He had respected her and she'll never forget the times he saved her life. The look on his face he had when he entered the room to see her being held hostage almost frightened her. He was terrified for a second but quickly cleared his face from all expressions and did what he had to do.  
She was fortunate enough to see a version of Sherlock almost nobody had the chance to see, the kind and caring version of him. Yes, Sherlock had cared for her. Maybe in his own ways but nevertheless did he care for her. It was killing her to know that everyone in London is believing that he is a crazy psychopath so easily. They never even tried to get to know him and just hated him from the start. She wanted everyone to know the real him.

The therapist had the idea for the diary after John had told her that sometimes he was angry at Sherlock. It took him almost a year to admit it. Ever since the suicide John's feeling were like a rollercoaster. There has been everything, from depression to guilt, but there was one feeling he always tried to deny. It felt selfish to think so but in a way John felt betrayed, Sherlock knew that he was the one reason John was feeling better. Although John never actually told Sherlock, he was hundred per cent sure Sherlock had deduced this a long time ago. If so, how could he have gone and jumped off that rooftop when he must have known what it would do to John? Did he really mean so little to him?  
But this brought John back to his guilt, knowing he could have done more to protect Sherlock. He was his best friend and he couldn't even save him. Somehow John felt it was, to some extent, his fault. He hadn't noticed that Sherlock was taking the accusations so seriously. He didn't seem to be desperate but after all, this was Sherlock. Sometimes it didn't seem that he had feelings at all. Still, John could have tried to talk to him.  
The anger and the guild were almost worse than the depression. When he felt depressed he just went to bed early and stared at wall. He could deal with that. The anger was something different. He would not be able to sit still. Every muscle in his body would contract; John would clench his jaws and fists. When it would be too much he would punch whatever is nearest to him, like a cushion or a pillow. Sometimes he even punched the wall.

Still looking at his journal his thoughts began to drift away. He remembered the one time where he had managed to get Sherlock to go shopping for groceries. Technically Sherlock didn't _shop _but he at least went with John to the store. They were on the way home from a case and Sherlock was still so euphoric that he didn't noticed that John had taken a slight detour until they were standing in front of Tesco. Even though Sherlock had complained a lot at first he followed the army doctor inside. The only reason for this probably was that if he went home alone he would have no one to rave about how brilliant the case was. John knew this but didn't care. All that mattered was that the one and only consulting detective was inside a supermarket. Sherlock even carried home the milk.

With that memory in his head John wrote:

_Sherlock, go and get some milk?_

It seemed to fit to what he wanted to say to Sherlock now and with that he got up from his desk and went to work; he had the night shift.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

Sherlock stood in the cold air of London and watched the front door of 221b Baker Street being opened from the opposite site of the street. Rain was pouring down with no mercy and his coat was already soaked. Sherlock could feel tiny drops of water trickle down his back and his black curls were clinging to his forehead.

In two weeks it would be a year since he left his flat for the last time. The past year had been the worst one he ever had to live through. All those hard nights spend huddled under a thin blanket. The places he stayed weren't exactly nice and cosy. Since he couldn't just go around and waste money he stayed in abandoned buildings for most of his nights. He would find a spot that is at least somewhat sheltered from wind, a corner maybe. He slept sitting up most of the time, as the ground would be too hard to lie down on.

Sleep never came easy. His mind was always alert, registering every sound around him . A floor board that creaked, a rattle in the trees outside the house, the sound of a bird in the distance, all these sounds made him jump in fear of someone finding him and killing him in his sleep. Sherlock wasn't afraid of dying but he feared not finishing what he started. The only nights that he slept through were the once he was so exhausted that he couldn't even see straight anymore.

In the rare moments he wasn't thinking about the job his mind wandered back to the people in London. Sherlock didn't care that his reputation was ruined and that he died in disgrace. The only thing that bothered him was that he couldn't watch over his "friends", as Moriarty had put it. Sherlock never really thought about whether he would call them his friends but it he knew that they all hat cared for him and in some way or another he had cared for them to. Still, for now all he could do was to hope that they are all okay and that Moriarty's men had left them alone.

He couldn't dwell on thoughts like that too long, though. He had much more important stuff on his mind.

Moriarty's web is bigger than he guessed at first and it took almost a year to track them all down. He chose his first victim carefully – a man, living in London. It took a few days to find out the man's habits and work schedule but after that, the job was done quickly.

Sherlock had waited for the investment banker in the man's flat. It wasn't too hard to get into the flat since there was almost no security apart from a camera in the buildings entrance. The camera would be watched by a security guard all time so there was no chance Sherlock would be able to simply stroll up the flat.  
This wasn't a big problem though. He quickly found the fire escape at the back of the building and climbed it all the way to the top of the building. With the help of a lock pick the door was open in no time and Sherlock walked down to the second floor. The last barrier between him and the flat was a number pad at the door but that was a piece of cake for Sherlock. A 4 digit code was required to open the key hole. It would have been easy for him to deduce the code with no clue but smudge on the keys made it really easy. Sherlock now knew the digits now all he had to do was to find out the right order. He had followed the man long enough to know that he is obsessed with his dog. The banker did everything for that little Yorkshire terrier and so it was no big surprise that the numbers coincided with the dog's birthday. Again sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side. Sherlock was in the flat within seconds. He had spied from the other side of the street but now Sherlock could see everything in the room for the first time. He knew he had half an hour before the man would come home from a walk with his dog so he took his time walking around the empty flat. He could deduce a lot more about the man now. Despite the dog the flat was as clean as an operating room. The banker must be cleaning it every day. The mania for cleanliness could indicate that he is scared of leafing evidence of his double like. Banker by day, criminal by night.

There were no pictures of family or friends found anywhere in the flat. The colour theme of the flat seemed to be white and grey. It all made the flat feel cold. Sherlock didn't know why but he had a desire to find out as much as possible about the man he was about to kill. As if he wanted to make sure he is indeed a criminal even though all evidence already made it clear that the banker is as bad as they come. Sherlock did his research about the man.  
After university, where he studied Business Administration, he had been in the army where he learned how to handle a sniper gun. After only three years he resigned due to psychological issues with the job. He began working at a small bank without any high profile cases. There never was a problem with his work, he was even voted employee of the month a few times. The problems started when he began working his way to the top. Bigger firm, bigger cases more money. He moved into the city to be closer to work. There was no time for friends anymore and the few that he's had before left him. Work was all he had in his life. For some reason, Sherlock didn't know whether it was to work harder or to cope with the emptiness, the banker started doing drugs. Through the drugs he started to come in contact with pretty shady people. Somewhere along the way he was in need of money or otherwise he had never taken up side jobs like embezzling money and spying on his own bank. Through jobs like that he came to know Moriarty. Eventually he stopped with the drugs and instead started to practise shooting again.

That's when Moriarty started to see his true value.  
That's all Sherlock was able to find out about his former life. This and the fact that he is one of the snipers that were supposed to take down his friends.  
While looking through the flat, Sherlock found a secret compartment behind a shelf. Even though he hadn't much time anymore his curiosity won and he tried to open it. It took more time than at the door to get the code but it Sherlock managed to get the code. Inside was a brown duffle bag. He was about to open it when a picture fell down from the top of the bag. It was a picture of John.  
Sherlock felt the anger inside rising as he looked closer. It appeared as if the picture was taken outside of 221b Baker Street. John was wearing a blue jumper with stripes on it. He remembered that day. John was leaving after having a fight with Sherlock about his experiments.  
On the backside of the photograph were some basic details about John written. Name, age, work place, often frequented places, friends and family. Apparently this sniper was sent for John. From that moment on Sherlock felt no remorse. The only thing that he regretted was that the banker would die quick and painless. The plan was to mix poison into his water bottles. The banker only drank bottle water so there always was an open one. He would suspect nothing until it would be too late.  
Sherlock shoved his hand into his coat pocket to check whether the syringe was still there. He closed the secret compartment and made his to the kitchen when he heard the door open. The banker must have come home early. Sherlock froze in the middle of the living room. He had to act fast. This was his only chance. If he blew it he would be in big trouble as the criminal would surly recognise him. He hid himself poorly next to a shelf that wasn't in clear sight of the door. When the banker entered the living room Sherlock hit his fist into his face. The banker did not see this coming and tumbled a little bit, his face contorted with pain and surprise. The surprise didn't last long. He saw a man standing in front of him with his fist ready to hit again. The banker was much quicker and managed to hit the intruder back. While the man swayed back due to the hit, the banker managed to get a better look at his opponent. He immediately recognised the famous dark curls and high cheek bones. In that moment the banker heard a loud clash and felt something shatter over his head, then everything went black. With a loud howl the dog ran towards the bedroom, scared from the noise.

Sherlock had smashed a plate on the criminal's head. Thankfully he was rendered unconscious by that so Sherlock could inject the poison into banker's neck. He stayed for a few minutes to check he had actually killed the guy and left only after there was no heartbeat or breathing coming from the body on the floor.

The air outside was cold and the sky was covered in thick clouds. Sherlock pulled his coat collar up to cover his face a little bit. It was dangerous to walk around London for him. Without thinking Sherlock made his way towards Baker Street. Sherlock had to avoid public transport to raise attention and he didn't trust cab drivers anymore so he had to walk. After about ten minutes of walking it had started to rain. At first it was just a slight drizzle but by the time Sherlock reached his old flat the rain was pouring down. Sherlock hid himself behind a car and waited. While researching the banker he had also looked a little bit into the life of his friends. He knew John worked at Saint Bart's hospital now. He also knew that John had the night shift on Tuesdays. Today was Tuesday. It could only be minutes now until John would walk out the door and be on his way to work. Then the door opened.

**This chapter isn't yet checked by some other than me. Sorry if there are any mistakes that I missed. I'm working on in.**


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